


How to Woo Your Publicist

by startraveller776



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26267821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776
Summary: Tom Hiddleston has a secret crush on one of the publicists at Luke’s firm. Just how far is he willing to go to woo his would-be lady love?(PERPETUALLY INCOMPLETE)
Relationships: Tom Hiddleston/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	1. The Hatching of a Mad Plan

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** This is a repost of a fic written 2013-ish, based on what was known about Tom's life then. There are also appearances of other celebrities in this story, but I haven't listed them as they do not have more than an ancillary role.
> 
>  **BEFORE YOU READ:** There will be no further updates to this story. Read at your own peril.

“I’m dying. Slowly, wretchedly dying.”

There’s a long-suffering sigh on the other end of the phone. “You aren’t dying, Tom. It’s just a fever. Take some paracetamol.”

“I haven’t got any.” Tom winces at his petulant tone. He’s not typically this much of a baby, except when he’s _dying_. And Luke apparently has no sympathy for the impending demise of his friend.

“Then go to the chemist and buy some.” No sympathy at all, the bastard.

Tom groans before getting caught up in a sneezing fit, upsetting the pile of wadded up tissues on his chest.

“Fine,” Luke mutters. “I’m sending Anna over.”

No, no, _no_. This is not what Tom wants. The last time he saw Anna, he’d been jet-lagged and just slightly pissed (because his ridiculous schedule had him flying into London within hours of the Glamour Party where he was greeted with endless alcohol), and he’d gone and nearly kissed her. “Please don’t trouble her. I’ll—”

“Too late. I’ve already texted her. She’ll be at yours in twenty.” With a click, Luke is gone.

Tom refuses to panic as he drags his miserable arse off the sofa. His flat is a disaster of discarded tissues and dirty teacups, and he’ll be damned if he faces Anna in this shambled state. His head swims as he stumbles through the place, tossing everything in the bin, teacups et al.

In his fever-induced dementia, he decides to take a shower because when was the last time he’s done that, anyway? After yesterday morning’s run? Or was that the day before? Everything is becoming a bit of a blur, and dammit, this is all Luke’s fault. If he’d only come and look in on his most prominent client instead of sending his stunning, amazing associate to do the job, Tom wouldn’t be overexerting himself.

The shower is less scrubbing and more leaning against the wall under a stream of water that seems to alternate between being too hot and too cold, and Tom thinks he’s led a good enough life; death might not be unwelcome at this point. He can’t recall the last time he was ever this ill (never, he wants to believe).

“Hello?” a melodious voice calls out. “Tom?”

He starts awake (when had he fallen asleep?) and nearly falls out of the bath. His head is really throbbing now. And he realizes— _shit_ —that he didn’t bring a change of clothes in here with him. Maybe if he’s quick enough, he thinks as he wraps a towel around his waist, he can at least get a pair of sweats on before Anna finds him.

“Helloo-oo?” She calls again. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

His legs have somehow become wobbly bits of gelatin—which he’s fairly certain has more to do with his illness than her presence—and he only makes it into the bedroom before she crosses the threshold, singing, “Knock, knock!”

Oh, no.

Oh, _shit._

She’s wearing that charcoal grey pencil skirt which hugs her hips just so and that blouse with the buttons that strain ever so slightly over her full bosom. (Stop staring, you idiot. You’re an award-winning actor, dammit, now behave like it.) Except when he’s finally able to wrench his eyes to hers (not the glasses too—so much for keeping those sexy librarian fantasies at bay), she’s not looking at him—not at his face, anyway. No, her gaze is most decidedly lingering on his bare chest, and all hope of playing it cool dissipates.

He rakes a hand through his wet hair (he must look like a soggy golden retriever with his unruly mop), and gives her the best approximation of a smile that he can muster. “I’m sorry for the trouble.” Or that’s what he attempts to say, but what comes out instead is another series of sneezes—loud enough to shake the foundations.

Her brow pinches with concern, and she steps toward him. “You really are a mess, aren’t you?” she says with the kind of sympathy he’d been hoping for from Luke. “Poor thing. And here I was about to accuse you of a sloppy seduction.”

If only. He forces a laugh. She’s always spouting cheeky things like that without a care for what it does to him. Why does she have to be so damn _perfect?_ “I’d like to believe I’d be slightly more creative than feigning illness.”

“We’ll just have to test that theory someday,” she returns with a wink. “I’ve brought you a whole bag of goodies—enough to put a horse out of its misery. Shall I put on some tea whilst you make yourself less nude?” Her gaze dips again as her tongue peeks briefly out of the corner of her mouth (she’s going to be the cause of his death long before this fever has the chance). “Or do you need my help with that, too?”

“I think I can manage on my own, thank you.” He’s not sure he can, but allowing her to dress him is insupportable. He’ll be hanging on to that final dignity, thank you very much.

When she leaves the room, he collapses against the bed. He considers crawling under the blankets as-is, to hell with clothing, but decides he’s feeling rather vulnerable enough without adding naked-as-a-baby to the list. Every joint aches and his limbs feel heavy as he wrestles himself into sweats and a t-shirt. He wraps himself in a blanket (how is it that he’s freezing when he’s got a fever?) and shuffles out into the sitting room.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Anna’s voice carries from the kitchen. “You march yourself right back to that bedroom. I mean to knock you out with heavy sedatives, and I’m not going to have your lanky self sprawled on the sofa for the next twelve hours.”

He’s too weak and exhausted and pathetic to argue, so he obeys. The bed’s more comfortable. After he’s settled, he pops a text off to Luke.

_I’m going to kill you._

A minute later, Luke replies: _I’ve heard that empty threat before_.

Anna is back, carrying the tea service with a plate of biscuits. “I know I should make you some soup,” she says, setting the tray on the bed next to him, “but I think it’s better to bribe you with these instead.”

“Bribe me?” he asks, reaching for a biscuit.

She smacks his hand away. “Not until you take these first.” She produces a small arsenal of meds, and passes him a glass of water. “Bottoms up.”

He grumbles, but swallows the pills, and she offers him a biscuit with a wide grin. She is absolutely dazzling, especially with that pretty little haze about her. Of course, everything has that pretty little haze, but it looks especially nice on her.

“I suppose you’re set now,” she says, straightening. “I’ll check in on you in a few, all right?”

He grasps her wrist before she can retreat; her skin is so soft and so warm and he is positively delirious. “Stay for a while,” he says—or pleads, rather. It’s pitiful, but he’s never truly liked being alone when he’s not well.

She purses her lips and seems to take forever to consider his request. “Since it’s our anniversary, I suppose I can’t deny you.” She kicks off her heels and climbs into the other side of the bed, careful not to jostle the tea service.

He frowns, thinking he might actually be hallucinating now. “Anniversary?”

“Yes, it’s been six months now since Luke pawned you off on me,” she replies as she pours out the tea and hands him a cup. “It’s been an adventure, to say the least.”

“You’ve been keeping track?” He’s not quite convinced this isn’t a dream. Because her confession implies that he might have had as much impact on her as she’s had on him.

She makes a noise of agreement around a bite of biscuit. “I’ve always been good with dates,” she explains. “Sort of an idiot savant quirk of mine.”

Oh.

To hide his disappointment, he takes a sip of tea and nearly spits it out. “This is awful,” he blurts. Apparently the fever has incinerated all diplomacy from him.

She laughs. “It’s one of those herbal concoctions meant strengthen your immune system.”

He takes another drink and makes a face. “It’s intolerable.”

She laughs again, and he thinks he’s never heard a more glorious sound in his life. He’s a goner. Undeniably. (He might also be high on the drugs.)

She picks up the plate of biscuits and holds them under his nose. “Drink the whole cup, and you can have all of these.”

He’s going to do it, too. Because there’s a lovely sort of disconnect in his brain between reason and desire now, and all he wants is to make her happy. She could probably talk him into performing at a local talent show as Bill Hazeldine; he doesn’t care.

She pulls out her phone as he finishes the abysmal drink. “Chapter One: A New Beginning,” she says. “’It wasn’t a very likely place—‘”

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” she returns with a grin. “I’m finally getting you to read Outlander—or reading it to you.”

He raises a brow. “Outlander? That romance novel?”

“Oh, hush.” She swats his arm. “You’re just jealous that they didn’t cast you to play Jamie.”

His brows climb higher on his forehead. “I never auditioned for it.” Nor had he wanted to. It wasn’t the sort of off-beat, cerebral role he liked to go for—barring Loki, of course.

“Every man wants to be Jamie Fraser, and every woman wants to be with him.” She winks. “I suppose you’ve got it part right, being half-Scottish. And you pulled off the auburn hair brilliantly in _The Hollow Crown_.”

He leans back against the headboard, jaw cracking with an involuntary yawn. “Is that all it takes to woo a woman?” he asks, affecting his father’s accent. “A kilt and a proper brogue?”

She grins and takes another bite of her biscuit. “See? You’re at least twenty-five percent more attractive.”

“Only twenty-five?” he protests.

“When you wear a kilt, I’ll reassess.” She picks up her phone. “Now be quiet. You’re at my mercy and I plan to take unfair advantage of you.”

He laughs, or thinks he does (everything’s gone fuzzy) as she continues reading. He slips into oblivion just as Frank and Claire pretend to make loud, violent love in the bed and breakfast.

He wakes at dawn, feeling less like his head is stuffed full of cotton and more capable of rational thought. She’s gone (of course), but he remembers enough of the day before (and his rather salacious dream involving kilts and Anna laid out beneath him on the verdant Highland hills), and he’s got a plan.

A completely ridiculous plan.


	2. Murphy's Law

Tom reads _Outlander._ It’s not as bad as he expects. He quite likes the historical bits, and the encounter between Randall and Jamie near the end is wonderfully disturbing; Tom’s glad the author doesn’t gloss over Jamie’s recovery. He _supposes_ he can see the allure of that particular kilt-wearing Highlander from the eighteenth century. Jamie’s a decent enough chap—despite waxing a little too flowery at times with his declarations of affection.

Tom watches the series too. He’s nothing if not a thorough researcher, and he admits that Sam Heughan embodies the role rather well. Tom is not jealous, though. Playing the romantic hero has never really been his thing—not onscreen, anyway. In life is an entirely other matter apparently. If only Sarah and Emma could see him now. They’d spend the next decade teasing him over his schoolboy crush.

He doesn’t care. If he’s going to be a complete ninny, then he might as well go all in.

He examines himself in the full-length mirror. His costume is not an exact replica of Jamie’s wedding attire; Tom isn’t going to wear the Fraser tartan when he’s got his own family plaid and a shred of dignity left. But the rest is straight from the infamous episode—fitted to his more lanky frame. He considered beefing up, but he leaves early next week to begin principal photography for the third Thor film. Kevin Feige will be more than slightly fractious if Tom shows up without his rangy Loki physique.

He’s got the hair, or close to it, though. He tries not to consider how utterly mental it was to have it colored to a bright auburn this morning only to dye it black tomorrow—all for the sake of a costume party. He’s going to be bald by the time he’s forty at this rate.

“Look at you, you wanker,” he says to his reflection. “You’ve completely lost the plot.” He scrubs a hand across his stubble and sighs. It’s not too late to back out of this daft plan, but he’s a goner and there’s nothing to be done for it.

He grabs his laptop off the bed, looks up the directions to Emma Watson’s new place. He’s driving himself to her Halloween bash rather than sending for a car. Because there is nothing less down-to-earth than arriving like a celebrity who expects a red carpet photo op, and he needs Anna to see Tom, the average Joe, rather than Tom, pampered rising star.

Yeah. Because paying a small fortune to a friend to do up authentic eighteenth century Highlander garb screams “I’m a normal guy, I swear it.”

He’s _such_ a git.

The party is in full swing when he arrives. He’d like to slip in unnoticed, stake out the guests until he finds her, but no, that’s not happening. He’s too tall—accursed genetics—and too, well, well-known. He’s not even at the door before he’s accosted by someone. Some actor who had a minor role in something he did, and he can’t for the life of him remember the bloke’s name. Tom’s rather ashamed of that too. It’s always been his goal to treat up-and-comers with the kindness and respect he appreciated when he was a nobody.

He smiles and nods his way through a discussion about a lead role in an indie film the other fellow has landed. He’s vaguely aware of offering advice about professionalism and networking, but he’s distracted—his gaze keeps wandering toward the house, to where Anna might be.

“Listen, mate,” he says, clapping a hand on the guy’s shoulder with a look he hopes is duly apologetic, “I’m sorry to cut our conversation short, but I’ve got someone waiting inside.” Not quite the truth but near enough. “Why don’t you give me your number, and we’ll have lunch before I leave town, yeah?”

Fortunately his nameless companion is cool with the polite brushoff and produces a business card for him. Tom stows it in his sporran before shaking hands. Released back to the search for his query, he heads inside with nervous anticipation brewing in his stomach.

Well, shit.

The place is _packed_. Bodies crowded together from wall to wall. He could spend the next three hours here and never cross her path. Wouldn’t that just be bloody fantastic?

No. No, don’t do that. You didn’t dress up as her favorite book boyfriend to throw in the towel at the first sign of a challenge.

He pushes through the throng toward the makeshift bar. A stiff drink before he spends the evening waving off friends and acquaintances in favor of hunting down Anna. He orders a vodka tonic, and while he waits, he digs a few pounds out of the leather pouch at his waist for a tip.

“Nice kilt.”

He turns at the decidedly feminine and Canadian voice. Rachel McAdams—who might be his next costar if he agrees to the project—stands next to him, though it takes a moment for him to recognize her. She’s done up to look like Marie Antoinette, complete with a disturbingly realistic slash across her neck.

“Why, thank ye,” he says with the proper brogue. “I dinna mean to alarm you, lass, but you’re bleeding on your pretty frock.”

She points at him with a laugh. “I see what you’re doing. You’re that guy, right? The—” she snaps her fingers a couple of times, “—Scotsman from that historical romance novel.”

“James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser at your service.” He gives her a slight bow.

“Oh, you’re good.” She smiles. “You know, when I was little, I actually thought you guys didn’t celebrate Halloween here.”

Tom raises a brow. “So close to the birthplace of Samhain?”

She shrugs. “I was a naïve Canadian, what can I say?” She looks him over and says, “So, is your lady love here with you, Mister Fraser?”

“Why, no,” he answers, glancing at the horde of revelers. “I canna seem to find Mistress Beauchamp. Have you seen her?”

“I think I did, actually.” She narrows her eyes as she scans the room. “I think I saw her heading toward the library.”

“Thank you,” he says, slipping back into his Londoner accent. “I owe you one, darling.” He kisses her cheek and backs away from the bar.

“You can repay me by reading over that script,” she replies.

“Done.”

“Good luck!” she yells after him as he makes his way through the partygoers again.

He hasn’t the first clue where the library is and he left his drink behind. But he’s off on his mission again, hoping that the Claire Beauchamp Rachel saw was the right one. And he hopes that Anna followed through on her intention to attend the festivities as that particular character. He doesn’t care if their costumes don’t match, but it would be really shitty if he spent the evening chasing down Claires only to learn afterward that she came as Black Widow.

He stamps down the image of her clad in curve-hugging black leather. Now is not the time, sir.

He finds the library—envies Emma the spacious room with wall to ceiling books. It’s quieter, though the music still permeates the air. And _there_ —she’s there. And she’s Claire. Even more gorgeous than the onscreen incarnation, no offense intended to the lovely Miss Balfe—but Anna in that period gown steals the air from his lungs.

He sucks in a deep breath to steady his nerves and steps across the threshold. Or starts to, but is stopped with a hand against his chest.

“Hello, Tom,” Luke says next to him. He’s come as the Phantom. Not a bad look for him.

“Luke, mate.” Tom casts a furtive glance at Anna to be sure she hasn’t disappeared. “Having a pleasant evening?”

“Most pleasant,” Luke answers, though he doesn’t sound it. “You?”

“I’ve only just arrived,” Tom says. She’s still there, chatting with a woman he doesn’t recognize. “But it’s a fantastic party.”

“Only the best from Emma.” Luke angles his face so he’s blocking Tom’s view, and the expression he wears is rather stern. “Tom, she’s my best publicist.”

Tom blinks as the synapses in his brain scramble after the sudden subject change. “She’s really exceptional,” he agrees.

“Right,” Luke says, “and I know that look in your eye.”

“What look?” Tom scoffs, though he suspects he knows exactly what Luke is referring to.

Luke levels him with a flat stare. “I swear I will fire you as a client if I lose her to another firm because you’ve broken her heart.”

“Broken her—?” Tom frowns; there’s something niggling him about that part of Luke’s statement, but he can’t place his finger on it. “You make me sound like a scoundrel.”

Luke sighs. “I know you’re not as bad as all that,” he says, “but you haven’t been in a serious relationship in years. It’s one thing to have a few casual dalliances here and there, but this is Anna—someone both you and I work with, and I won’t have you cocking that up because she tickles your fancy for the moment.”

“Wow.” Tom shakes his head in disbelief. And possibly in offense. No, not possibly. Definitely. He’s _definitely_ offended. “You don’t give me enough credit, Luke. But worse, you don’t give _her_ enough credit. If I were truly the areshole you’re making me out to be, I’ve no doubt she’d see through any façade I might put on.”

He steps closer to his friend—and he’s using that term loosely at this moment—and murmurs, “Just to be clear, I’m not an arsehole. So you can drop the overprotective older brother act.” Once he’s sure Luke has the message, he retreats. “Enjoy the party.” He absolutely does not mean that.

Tom skirts the edge of the library, letting his frustration with Luke dissipate before he approaches Anna—who, fortunately, hasn’t moved, and who hasn’t seemed to notice Tom. He’s had a row with Luke here and there over the years—and they’ve always recovered, as mates do—but this argument leaves him more unsettled than usual. Is Luke right? Is this only a fleeting infatuation? Infatuation. That seems like such a shallow word to describe the way his heart beats a new cadence whenever she’s near. He hasn’t felt like this since university. Not even Susannah inspired this kind of emotion in him, though she came dangerously close for a while.

Damn. He’s in love, isn’t he? Right and truly head over heels.

He’s not all that different from Jamie Fraser after all. What’s next? Waxing poetic about his undying love? Yes. Sadly, yes. Tom just might be that far gone, and he can’t even blame it on alcohol.

He’s managed to get to her without her laying eyes on him, and he slinks up behind her, pressing a finger against his lips when her companion sees him. She gives him a slight nod and kindly extricates herself from the conversation with some excuse he doesn’t catch.

When he and Anna are alone—she smells so unfairly nice—he leans forward and murmurs against her ear, “My heart has been yours since I first saw ye, Sassenach.”

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” she shouts, startled. She spins around and her mouth falls open when her gaze lands on him. “Tom?” She doesn’t give him a chance to respond before practically knocking him over with a crushing hug.

Yes, good this. More of this.

She releases him. “Look at you!” She wags a finger at him. “Someone’s read Outlander.”

“Guilty as charged,” he says. “The book came highly recommended by a trusted friend.”

“I’ll have to thank her later.” She grins and everything becomes brighter. Her fingers glide up his rough woolen coat and down his arms, and then back up over his shoulders to his hair because he graciously bent forward to give her better access. Anything, really, to keep her touching him.

“Well?” he asks. “I seem to recall your willingness to reassess my attractiveness when I wore a kilt.”

She laughs. “I thought you’d be too delirious to remember.” She plants her hands on her hips. “All right. Let’s have it.” When he raises a brow, she adds, “I know you’ve memorized some of his lines. Give me your best Jamie.”

The first line that comes to mind is wholly unacceptable; Tom’s certain she won’t appreciate him quoting that he intends to make her his and use her hard—even though he suddenly finds that to be a masterful plan. Hard and often. _So_ often. Which, of course, leads to another quote that he is not above using, especially in these close quarters.

“Does it ever stop?” he recites, deep and throaty in a perfect imitation of the accent from the primary masculine influence of his childhood. “The wanting you?” He takes the liberty of caressing her cheek in the name of the performance. Her skin is exquisitely soft. “Even when I’ve just left ye.”

He brings his other hand up to cradle her jaw. “I want you so much my chest feels tight and my fingers ache with wanting to touch ye again.” Oh, yes. He _is_ Jamie. Because every word is true.

Anna stares up at him, breathless, eyes wide, and Tom very nearly kisses her. But the moment passes too quickly, broken when she grasps his hands and gently pries them from her.

“Keep that up,” she says, “and women will be throwing their knickers at you at every turn.”

His heart sinks—just a little. He is not entirely unaware of the inexplicable effect he’s had on the opposite sex since his star began to rise, and while it’s terribly flattering—especially having been a rather gangly and awkward youth—he’s only interested in the knickers of this particular woman. No, wait. That’s not coming out right. He’s only interested in the _adoration_ of this particular woman. As well as the knickers.

“I suppose that leaves only one thing before I give you my final evaluation,” she says, drawing his attention more fully to her. “Is that kilt being worn properly?”

His brows furrow in confusion for a moment before he understands what she’s asking. She is so wondrously _cheeky._ He grins at her, tongue grazing his bottom lip. “Oh, darling. You know there’s only one way to wear a kilt.”

Her face takes on a fetching rosy hue as her eyes dart briefly to his groin. Has she no idea what that does to him? “Touché, Mr. Hiddleston.”

“How have I come out?” he asks, unconsciously moving just the slightest bit closer to her. “Better than twenty-five percent this time, I hope.”

She purses her lips, looks toward the ceiling as if giving his question serious consideration. “I’ll give you fifty,” she says with a smirk.

His brows climb his forehead. “Fifty!?” he exclaims, though there’s laughter in his voice. “I read the book and watch the series, memorize lines, color my hair, and wear a damn kilt and all I get is _fifty?”_ The woman is impossible, and he loves it. Against all reason.

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be a baby, Tom,” she says. “You’re already well above average in the looks department—not to mention your absurdly likeable personality. Precisely how bone-meltingly hot do you need to be in order to satisfy your ego?”

His mouth stretches in a smile so wide, his cheeks hurt. That’s the nicest compliment she’s ever paid him. And—oh. _Oh._ He remembers what Luke said about breaking her heart. It’s rather impossible to break her heart unless _she fancies him._ The revelation sends a bolt of electricity through his body. He wants to shout from the bloody rooftops.

_She fancies him._

Before he can talk himself out of this rash decision, he grabs her by the waist and pulls her into him, covering her lips with his. He kisses her with the hunger and affection he’s kept bottled up for months. She responds by becoming liquid in his arms, by meeting his fire with flames of her own, and bloody _hell_ , he wants to take her home _right now_ and spend the next several days shutting out the rest of the world. And then he wants to take her everywhere with him—or go wherever she goes—because being separated _ever again_ is simply unconscionable. Which is completely bananas, but somehow makes perfect sense.

Forget university; it’s _never_ been like this before.

Unfortunately, evolution did not provide a way for snogging indefinitely without coming up for air, and he’s forced to break off the kiss. He rests his forehead against hers, grins down at her. She’s flushed; she’s _beautiful._

“And now?” he asks, unable to resist being a tad impertinent. “How do I rate?”

She lets out a breathy laugh. “Marginally better.”

He shakes his head. “There’s just no pleasing you, is there?”

“You’re certainly welcome to keep trying.”

She doesn’t give him the opportunity to accept her invitation before she’s drawing his mouth back to hers, routing out the last vestige of rational thought from him as her tongue sweeps across his lips. He’s quite sure he’ll be incinerated on the spot if he doesn’t consummate the inferno blazing through his veins soon. As demises go, this is a blissful one.

The need for respiration again trumps the need to possess her, and he holds her close as the kiss comes to a grudging end. “Any improvement?”

“Slight.” She sighs deeply, and it doesn’t sound as content as it ought to be. She pushes back from him, the movement dousing the heat around his heart with icy anxiety. “Tom,” she says, “I don’t think this—”

“Stop right there,” he interrupts. Et tu, Brute? She fancies him, but has the same low opinion of his staying power as Luke? That simply will not do. It’s not as if Tom set out to be laissez-faire about his romantic entanglements since his split with Susannah. He merely hadn’t found the yin to his yang until now.

“We are not ruining this amazing moment with overthinking.” He stares down at her to make his point. Honestly, he’d be willing to confess his love in iambic pentameter this very second if he was certain she wouldn’t flee before the end of the first verse. “I’m going to get us drinks, then we are going to spend the rest of the evening having a proper, if accidental, date.”

She doesn’t reply immediately, but searches his face—most likely for a hint of duplicity. That cuts him a little, but he’s more determined to prove to her, and to Luke, that he’s the man for the job.

Say yes. _Please_ , yes. Say yes, yes, yes.

“All right.”

He grins like the idiot he happily is. “Stay put.” He pulls her back into him and plants a somewhat sloppy kiss on her mouth—just to be sure she understands he means business—before withdrawing. “Don’t move!” he calls over his shoulder and she’s laughing through her blush.

It’s absolutely asinine, but he’s floating as he makes his way to the bar. One person or another speaks to him en route, and he knows that he’s managed a string of words that count as a response, but he has no idea of what he’s actually saying. But it doesn’t matter. None of it does. Only Anna. And kissing her. And her kissing him. And she said yes—to him. And there’ll be more kissing and possibly less clothing. And sonnets. He’ll read her sonnets as her head lies on his chest. He really is pathetic. And not the least bit sorry for it.

He’s in the home straight, almost back to the library with drinks in hand—what did he even order? He hasn’t a clue—when he’s stopped at the threshold again. This time it’s the hostess of this gathering who’s barring him from where heaven is.

“Emma, darling.” He bends down to greet her with a quick peck on the cheek. “Lovely party.” He looks over her head, and Anna is right where he left her, though she’s not looking his way.

“Thanks, Tom.” Emma beams up at him. What is her costume? It’s some kind of Regency thing. “Listen, could you do me the tiniest favor right now?”

He frowns, glances at Anna who is conversing with—is that Ben? “I don’t know,” Tom says. Yes, it is Ben. No good, that. “I’m actually—”

“This won’t take but a minute.” Her words are slurred at the edges, and Tom looks at her, really looks at her. Her eyes are a bit glazed, cheeks rosy. The girl is pissed—legless, in fact. Ah, to be young and reckless. Not that he’s old, only slightly wiser and slightly less willing to experience the aftermath from a night of liquor-induced debauchery.

Emma’s gripping his lapels, dragging him down to her, and he realizes her intentions a second too late as her mouth is against his in a drunken, wet kiss. Oh, shit. Oh, _shit_. OH, SHIT. He shoves her back, but it’s not fast enough. Because beyond Emma, Anna is staring at him, shaking her head with an expression that clearly says, “I should have known.” And then she’s lost in the crowd.

“What the hell was that!?” he yells at Emma, voice cracking with frustration, anger, and despair.

Emma looks up at him with all apologies. “I’m so sorry. That was stupid. It was only a stupid bet between me and Dan and Rupe, and I didn’t think—”

“No, no. Just…” Tom wipes some gooey confection left behind from her unasked-for kiss. He blows out a heavy sigh. He remembers doing insanely idiotic things a decade ago and can’t really blame her for being impetuous—no matter how much she’s royally screwed things up for him. “Just don’t include me in any more of your bets.”

“Right, sorry. I should never have… I know.” She makes a hasty exit.

Unfortunately the void is immediately filled with Luke. Because Tom’s botched evening apparently could get worse.

“Remind me again how you’re not an arsehole,” Luke says with a glower.

Tom closes his eyes, grits his teeth. Are the very Fates conspiring against him? “Will you please give me Anna’s address?”

“Are you dead from the neck up?” Luke’s tone is saturated with incredulity. “After what I just witnessed, there’s no bloody way—”

“I don’t give a damn what you think,” Tom cuts him off with a hard glare. “Emma ambushed me because of some ridiculous bet. And you’re going to give me Anna’s address so I can fix things with her, am I understood?”

Luke doesn’t hide his displeasure, but he doesn’t argue. Because he’s intimately aware of a little known fact about Tom Hiddleston: if politeness and good manners won’t do the trick—and they nearly always do—then the star is not opposed to throwing his weight around when he _really_ wants something.

And the only thing in the world he really wants right now is Anna.


End file.
